


Shell Shock

by rileywrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Merman Derek Hale, Post-WWI, Pre-Slash, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 00:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileywrites/pseuds/rileywrites
Summary: Stiles goes out to the seashore because it's this or the sanitarium, and he refuses to admit himself for exhaustion. He finds himself in a little rented cottage with a housekeeper who comes twice a week and nothing to do but read and swim. He's been there two weeks when a man washes up on his little stretch of beach. Or rather, something approximating a man.





	Shell Shock

There's a knock on the cottage door, and Stiles barely has time to sit up before the landlady comes hustling into his kitchen.

"I've come with the groceries, and Parrish is loading your woodshed. I'll have him put some in the box by the stove when he's done. There's a cold snap coming with the storms we're expecting, and I haven't gotten the furnace fixed yet, considering its supposed to almost be summer. The stove will have to do."

Tara sets a large box of food on the counter and is outside again before Stiles can offer to help. She brings in another large box and places it on the table.

"Alright, Sergeant, this should be enough to keep you for the week. I won't be back until next Wednesday, because my daughter is getting married this weekend."

"I remember, Mrs. Grimes, and please, call me Stiles. I'm not too worried about the cold snap, not with those lovely quilts you've piled on my bed." Not to mention, cold around here is nothing compared to the trenches.

"I just worry about your ankle, is all. How are you doing on it?"

"It's fine. It just goes odd when the wind changes, or if I try to exert myself too much."

He tries to help her put the food away, but she bats him aside like he's an overlarge fly.

"Then don't. Call the house, and Parrish will come help you do what needs doing."

"Parrish can't help me regain muscle strength, Tara. I have to exert myself to some extent."

Tara points at him with a large potato. "You came here to heal, young man. You are going to heal."

He doesn't bother reminding her that the part of him that needs healing most is one you can't injure by walking on it. They don't talk about the panic attacks that keep him stuck on the outer edge of the property.

"I'll do my best, ma'am." Stiles helps her unpack the boxes and hands her two envelopes. "One is for pay, one is for Betsey's wedding. Give her my regard, won't you? And remind her Kenneth that he has me to deal with if he screws up."

"I will, sweetheart." Tara kisses his cheek. "Get some rest. Eat up, before the casserole gets cold and you have to warm the oven."

Stiles hugs her before she goes, watching the wagon go jostling down the drive to the main house.

He's all alone again on his little peninsula, just him and the sea-- and the casserole that is rapidly cooling on his kitchen table.

God bless that woman.

…

_It's raining, the roll of thunder mixing in with the ever-present barrage of shells. Stiles struggles to stand upright, the mud sucking at his boots as he plasters himself against the trench walls._

_"I never thought I'd miss Basic," Greenberg jokes._

_Another shell falls, Stiles dives to the side, and Greenberg doesn't miss basic anymore._

_"Stilinski! Sarge, you've gotta keep moving! Stiles, you've gotta mo--"_

_Stiles hears the next shell before Andrew does._

…

"Get _out!"_

Stiles wakes screaming, shells coming down around him long after he escapes the dream. He curls up tightly to try and stop the shaking, to stop the never-ending ache in his head, to keep himself from rattling apart at the seams.

He won't be able to sleep again, so he doesn't bother trying. Instead, he wraps one of the many quilts around his shoulders and sits on the porch.

The brisk night air coming off of the sea is nothing like the smoke-filled rain of his nightmare, and eventually his fear-induced convulsions subside in favor of shivering from the cold.

There is a storm rolling in, the wind picking up as Stiles stares into the pitch black nothingness of the sea. The only thing that cuts the night is the ever present Beacon out on the Point, to Stiles' back.

Eventually, his sore ankle wins out over his sore soul, and Stiles goes back to bed. He puts another log in the stove and attempts to sleep once more.

If only he could sleep without dreaming.

…

_"Stilinski! Sarge, you've gotta keep moving! Stiles, you've gotta mo-"_

_Stiles hears the next shell before Andrew does, watches as it obliterates his closest companion in this never-ending hell of a war._

…

The thunder does not help his nightmares.

 The storm continues for two solid days, trapping Stiles in the cottage with himself and his thoughts and a dwindling wood pile. He has to go out to the shed to fill the box by the stove, but the world is too wet to risk it. He ends up shivering from fright and from the cold the second night.

The third morning, the storm has passed, allowing Stiles to go down to the beach for the first time in days. He pulls on his bathing suit and grabs a towel, intent on swimming some and wearing himself out.

He does not anticipate stumbling upon a man on his patch of beach. Or, rather, something approximating a man and failing somewhere around the iliac crest. He's trapped under a huge log of driftwood, but what Stiles can see of his lower-half is slick and gray.

"Sir? Sir, are you-- are you okay?" Stiles is too fascinated to consider the potential danger of interacting with a whatever-this-is. "Sir!"

The man (he settles on man in his head, for the sake of ease) is tall, broad in the shoulders and in the chest, with abdominal muscles you could kill someone with. The part of his face that isn't obscured by a large gash is strikingly handsome, strong-jaw and shapely nose.

Stiles pokes at the man's shoulder, jumping back when he groans.

Once Stiles is sure the man won't wake, he takes to removing the driftwood, carefully levering it up and off of his-- tail. That is a tail.

_Mermaid_ , his mind offers. _Merman,_ he quickly corrects.

"So this is a thing that's happening," he marvels aloud, mostly to himself.

(There is a distinct possibility that Stiles is a) dreaming, or b) hallucinating, but that is not the priority right now.)

With the tree removed, he can see the extent of the damage. There is another gash along the man's tail, and the tell-tale burn of lightning on his side.

He's breathing, barely, and Stiles considers that a miracle unto itself. The man should be dead, mythological creature or not.

Stiles grabs his flask of water from where he dropped his things and carefully pours a little into the man's parted lips. Still unconscious, the man drinks. Stiles risks another poke, and this time it rouses the man enough for his eyes to flutter open. They're the same color as the sea he came from.

"You--" The man blinks once, twice, before his eyes remain closed. "You should have let me die."

He's unconscious again before Stiles can reply.

Okay, so… his merman speaks English. That's convenient.

…

When Derek wakes, it's on a blanket, the human gently bandaging his wounds. Derek hisses in pain, teeth sharpening, but the human just pets his tail and continues his work.

"You should be healing faster than this," he chides, seemingly unaware that Derek is awake. "The book Parrish brought said that dolphins heal fairly quickly."

"I'm only partially dolphin in heritage," Derek rasps, startling the man into looking at him. "Even magic can't heal the lightning burns quickly."

"You're awake. You're talking. Holy fuck, you're awake."

Tangaroa grant him patience.

"Yes. Against my best intentions, I am alive and on land."

He gets his eyes to focus enough to look at the man tending to him, registering huge brown eyes first, directly followed by the dark circles the size of sand-dollars underneath.

"Who are you? Why did you save me?" A better question appears. "How can you _see_ me?"

The man startles again, something he seems to do often. "Should I not be able to?"

"Most humans can't see us. Something about our fae heritage."

"Fuck if I know, man." The man ties off the last bandage. "I'm Stiles, by the way. Stiles Stilinski."

The name rings a bell, and Derek closes his eyes to process it.

"Claudia Stilinski's son? She married that Sheriff down the coast?"

"That's me. Ah…" Stiles rubs the back of his neck. "She passed a few years ago. Before the war."

"I'm sorry to hear that. From what my mother said, she was a great woman. Partially fae, which explains you."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does." The man cracks a smile. "My dad has some explaining to do."

He goes silent, and Derek closes his eyes again.

"Why do you want to die?" The man finally asks, idly petting Derek's tail like he doesn't realize he's doing it. "Why are you mad that you didn't? That storm was a fucking nightmare."

"My family is gone, and there's no point in joining another. It was my fault. I'm alone, an outcast."

(He didn't realize that her magic was evil, that the reason she could see him was dark, that she wanted to kill his entire family in the process.)

"Well, this is going to sound weird, but… I'm glad you didn't die. I'm glad I discovered you." Stiles realizes he's still petting him, and stops abruptly.

Derek absolutely does _not_ miss the touch.

(He misses the touch like a new hole in his heart.)

"I've been alone for too long. This was just supposed to be a vacation, but… I can't go back to the city. Not yet." Stiles fidgets with a string on the stupid fabric humans wear to swim. "Look, I know you aren't happy, but… How about… how about a deal? You stay here, alive, until I'm able to go back to town. Then you can make whatever decision you like?"

Derek doesn't want to agree, but he feels compelled to.

(Maybe Stilinski is more fae than he realizes.) 

"Fine. Until you can go back."

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my WIP for over a year. Here's hoping it can find its wings if I just post it.


End file.
